House of Monsters
Scrcchhh srchhh srcchh.
Three scratches always three, never more, never less, and always in sets of threes that never failed to send a familiar trail of goosebumps creeping down my spine every time I walked by the basement door. But not this time. I welcomed those three scratches, finding an odd comfort in the way that they sounded like nails scraping hard against wood.
The rotten wooden surface of the door loomed in front of me, the only barrier between me and the elusive creature that lay hidden deep in the confines of our basement. Had it really come to this? Finally, would I meet my end at the hands of something even lesser than myself? To be finally able to escape the cold walls of my prison disguised as a home.
My eyes darted to the grease stain I called mother, lying flabby and protruding from the old grey recliner that was equally stained. The sight of her was revolting, her macabre canvas enhanced by the blue pale light that emanated from the T.V, casting dark shadows over the bumpy surface of her skin. Evidenced by the bottles of pills and “grown folks drinks” that lay at her feet, I knew that she was out for the night
Was it night?
It was hard to tell in this dungeon house with its boarded up windows and locked doors.
“We don’t need folks in our business,” the grease stain would always justify, shooting me looks of steel if I dared open my mouth to object.
I’d done that once and it didn’t end pretty. The thought of it sent a soreness down my backside as if my body had retained the memory of the long black cord digging and slicing into my skin. Since then I’d learned to be content with my dark surroundings, but still in an act of defiance my mind remembered a time where light flooded through the large windows highlighting every inch of our home in a yellow glow that brought with it feelings of love, hope and….him.
Father.
Thoughts of father always drowned me in memories of laughter and I remembered him chasing me around the table, his tall lanky build lumbering awkwardly as he tried to match the pace of my five year old legs, running in an effort to escape the barrage of tickles he would deliver if he’d caught me. Even mother, before she became the grease stain, would stand in the arch of the walkway, dainty shoulders wrapped in a pink sundress, a joy in her eyes as she watched our playful bodies rushing through the sunlit room.
I inwardly smiled.
He was the light, my light, our light.
Until that thing in the basement had gotten him, now there was only dark, cold, and her I thought bitterly.
Scrchhh scrchhh sscrchh
Three scratches always three, never more, never less My savior in the basement called out to me, pulling me from thoughts of what I’d lost and back to the rotting dark wood in front of me, the only barrier between me and my freedom. The cold press of the key in my hand forced me to look down and my eyes caught the dull silver in the waning light. Quick, as if the moment would be lost to me, I jammed it into the keyhole giving it a sharp twist, wincing as it made a loud thunking noise that sounded like a pounding chorus of drums in the quiet rooms of the house.
I looked over at mother’s body, tense, hoping I hadn’t woken the sleeping dragon .My apprehension was short-lived, however, when I realized that nothing could wake her when she went into one of her drunk induced comas. For once I was grateful, since it was the only reason why I had the key in the first place. Usually she kept it wrapped tightly in the sweaty folds of her neck, clutching it in suspicion whenever I dared to approach her holiness and the kingdom of filth that lay around her grease stained throne.
Tonight was different.
She’d had one of her worse episodes yet, forcing me to retreat to the walls of my own filth ridden nest upstairs in an effort to escape her rage. After the storm I’d come down only to find her splayed out on the recliner, matted hair caked with throw up and the silver key hanging off the arm of the chair like a discarded toy. Something changed in me then, like all the stars had aligned telling me that tonight was the night and the key, which used to feel like an omen, was now my salvation.
I couldn’t take it anymore!
The pressing weight of the past years of darkness had broken down everything in me, sucking out all of my hope, and no longer did the caged bird sing. It reminded me of that time I’d found a crack between the boards on the window, it was small, so small that I had to squint to make out what was beyond it. But through that sliver shone a light so golden and bright that for once warmth touched the cold wetness of my guts, pulling my cracking lips into the long forgotten strain of a smile. But in the way of the grease stain, she’d found that sliver and coated it in darkness, taking with it the last of my hope, the last of the light within me.
That void of hope was what ran through my mind when I snatched the key off the edge of the couch and darted over to the basement door ready to meet a fate similar of the one I’d loved most.
Scrchhh scrchhh scrchh
Three scratches, always three, never more, never less.
Sweaty palms turning the knob I pushed open the only barrier between me and the thing that could end my imprisonment. My gut twisted as the door glided open landing in a soft thump against the wall sending up smells of old paper and something rancid and metallic. A grimace painting my features, I fought the urge to turn away from the odor wafting up thick from the all-encompassing darkness. Loud shuffling noises and the wet gurgle of something bubbling up from a throat rang out, followed by a creaking sound and the vibration of a heavy weight plopping hard onto the bottom step.
Why wasn’t I scared, I should be scared.
I prodded at my shredded sanity, as another hard thunk landed on the stairs bringing that thing closer to my frail form in the arch of the doorway.
Since he’d been taken she’d warned me never to go into the basement, telling me how this thing, this monster would take me just like it did father. She was wrong. It was she who was the monster. The grease stained dragon roaring with her alcohol reeking breath, yelling out her hurts in painful lashes that left my backside bleeding whenever I dared to defy her.
Those blackened, tar stained lips scarfing down food as I sat holed up in my room with hunger pangs sending shoots of pain throughout my body.
The cold mother who looked at me as if the woes of her life were encased in this stick thin body of mine. I don’t know how I knew, but I could tell she blamed me for his death. I could see it in the way her eyes would linger on mine, something dark and hidden gleaming in them before turning away, treating me once again as if I were invisible.
A wet sloshing sound along with a soft thump rattled through the darkness setting an anticipation throughout my body. Regardless of my onset bravery I couldn’t stop the goosebumps that began to trail like braille down my arms. Still my sanity was nowhere to be found as I tilted forward an impatient hunger taking me over.
No, I wasn’t scared of my savior, I welcomed it with open arms, ready for it to reach the top step and take me from this cold place in the way that it’d done father. Like an overused stereotype, my life played before me in flashes as the creaking gurgling thing inched closer, landing hard on another step, bringing with it the thick stench of death. Hiding its advance behind the thin swells of my eyelids, I focused those memories, choosing to linger on the ones filled with father and the light that he brought.
We were inseparable he and I. Like two peas in a pod mother would say, scolding with a shaking head about how we were to close for our own good. I didn’t care. He was my best friend, the glue holding together our small family unit, and without him we’d descended into chaos.
Two heavy creaking thumps and a screeching wet scrape shook the stairs.
The day he was taken I remembered with a clarity that made my head hurt. I rushed in the house, report card in tow, ready to brag to father about all the good grades I’d gotten. Father liked when I got good grades and I would’ve done just about anything to make him happy. Including attending after school with old Miss. Robison, my seventh grade teacher, who’d had it out for me since I’d corrected her grammar in front of the whole classroom. Still I made a B in her class and was ready to tell him all about it, but as soon as I entered the house a sense of dread pooled deep in my stomach.
Mother, in her pre-grease stain phase, green flowery skirt pooled around her, was kneeling in front of the basement door hand over her mouth, with hard sobs racking her thin shoulders. Apprehensive, I tipped towards her, unsure of my steps, because I’d never seen mother cry, not like this, she was the quiet, almost shy, one of our trio. She didn’t notice my presence, however, until the door clicked shut behind me making her jerk her head in my direction.
She jumped up in a rush of wind, wiping her tears and straightening the nonexistent wrinkles in her shirt as her eyes narrowed at me in accusation like I’d been spying on her.
A groan of grinding steel and a sound like a boot landing hard in a wet puddle jarred me from the memory. It was closer and the smell of decay and rot was so thick now that it was almost suffocating. Squeezing them tight my eyes remained closed to the creature inching towards me as I replayed the movie of my life.
But it was futile because after the day he was taken, the only thing that I remembered was boarded up windows and darkness.
At that thought, something nagged at the back of my mind, sending a curious tingle up my spine. No, no that wasn’t true there was something else there, something else before the darkness. A memory. But it was blurry and hazy. I tugged at it softly then hard until I felt it dislodge from the thick barriers of my mind.
More screeches and gurgles rang out, all ending with hard thumps bringing my death closer and urging the memory out into the open.
It had been a few days after he’d been taken and mother had started her transformation into the grease stain, confining herself to eating and lying knee deep in a bottle in front of the TV. My silent cries that night must have brought her up to my room and she pushed open the door softly. Through the blurry haze of my tears I could just make out her disheveled stained form as she stood in the doorway watching me, like comforting her child had become a foreign concept.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered so low that I almost didn’t hear it. When she spoke again her voice had started to crack
“I…I should have stopped him sooner. What he was doing to you I should have stopped it, baby.”
The smell was sickening now making me fight the urge to gag. With that wet slurping sound something splashed onto the steps sending a spray of liquid onto my exposed knees.
“I should have stopped him sooner” What had she meant?
My mind surfed through my memories trying to remember.
No!
I didn’t want to remember. But it was too late, in the wake of my imminent demise the barrier had broken and out rushed all of those things I’d chosen to keep hidden. Those things that were just too painful to think about.
Memories of light turned dim as I remembered mother staring at father chasing me around the table, a smile on her face but something dark lurking in her eyes. “You’re too close for your own good.” she would say, but underneath those words lay a hidden truth that only she could comprehend and that he chose not to.
Thick breathing wafted wet and dank in my face from the mouth of the thing looming over me. The fear I’d been suppressing decided to kick in, sending more goosebumps down my arms and over every inch of my skin. I couldn’t tell if that was my heartbeat I was hearing or the pulsing of my brain as more of the memories carried out.
Everything turned cold.
Cold like mother’s looks of guilt and blame as she stared at me before continuing on like I was invisible.
Cold like that day I caught her crying when father was taken, shoving the silver key into her pocket hurriedly before telling me to never ever go in the basement.
Cold like those times I could hear them arguing and mother screaming about how I was just a little girl for Christ’s sakes, but I didn’t listen for long because that was grown folks business and I wasn’t supposed to hear any of that.
Cold like those nights father would walk past my room and knock three times, never more, never less, our secret code that meant to let him in.
Cold like his skin as he curled up behind me in bed wrapping himself around me.
Cold like his fingers as they picked and prodded at my body doing things to me that I didn’t understand, like those scenes in the movies where Mama always made me cover my eyes, but even so I would peek anyways.
Cold like the damp rag mama would bring in after he’d left to clean me up and soothe my sore spots.
Cold like the hate she hid in her eyes as she watched him chase me around the table like a predator trying to match the pace of my 5 year old legs running in an effort to escape those cold fingers.
Cold like…… Numb with fear. I opened my eyes in realization.
Cold like the caked bloody hand of the monster gripping my wrist
